Journey to the Past
by LoveShouldDie
Summary: The telling of everything that happened before the famous events in the Phantom of the Opera that we all know so well. The "whys" will be answered, and the stroyline of other characters will unfold, along with Erik's back round on how he came to be.


Where did the time go? It seemed to fly by right past our eyes as it began new adventures and ended old journeys, thought the old Persian as he came to the conclusion that his last breathes were beginning to be numbered.

Time was passing by, making his once black full hair, withered and gray, and his once young white skin, sag in some places and wrinkle in others. As moments creeped, and his days passed by without any everlasting memories, the old man thought over his life and was content to say his long eighty-one years of living and breathing were beyond satisfactory.

Eighty one years was a long time for a man to live, espicalley for a man who had never fallen in or out of love, seeing as he never found the time. He had accomplished minor achievements, things that would be easily forgotten just as the day you were born. He had wonderful friendships, ones which a bond of trust, loyalty, and respect would remain with you until your laid in your deathbed. His life as you may say, seemed like just as plain and simple as any other nonentity in the city of Paris, his time would come and he would breathe his last breath when the time was right.

But surely a man who was still functioning after over eight decades had a reason to keep on living, something was keeping him alive. No, it was not so he could experience the bliss of love or so he could remain with his reliable companions, no...it was a reason to put his life not to waste. A reason that would inform anyone with the time to listen about his encounter of a man yet no more, but yet no less, who in his opinion, should be considered one of the worlds most mysterious wonders.

The Persian wheezed as he waited in his flat while looking outside at the window, observing the raindrops trickle down the glass which made his view slightly more blurry than it already was. Directly in his view outside the window was the most well known and popular theatre in all of the country, the Opera Populair. He had not been their in years, not ever since that night that bid him unwelcoming.

Loudly creaking, the Persian's bed chamber door opened slightly. The old man's tired eyes watched as a young man, attiring a hat and suit peaked his head through, waiting for a welcoming.

"Ah, Monsieur Gaston Leroux," the old Persian's shaky voice spoke, "please do come in."

The young novelist, soaked to the bone, came trotting into the room, holding a briefcase containing a typewriter and bringing the scent of fresh rain with him . The Persian discovered Monsieur Leroux after reading his first published mystery novel, knowing that he would be the man he would let his story be told to for the world to read.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Monsieur-" Gaston paused as he waited for the Persian to fill in the blank.

"My name is Nadir, Nadir Daroga." The old man said proudly as Gaston opened up his briefcase to retrieve his typewriter, eager to write anything that escaped from Nadir's lips.

"I need you to tell my story," Daroga said, "a story that cannot go to waste about a mystery never fully explained."

Gaston smiled, and watched as the old man closed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Now bare with me, Monsieur Leroux. All I ask is for one sitting with you, after what I inform you with, it is your choice on to seek more information on what I have to tell you or to not create a novel on at all."

Gaston nodded, waiting patiently for the old man to begin his story, not fully aware if he was wasting his time or not. Nadir looked at the young novelist, knowing that the only way he could have Gaston publish his story was only if he was open minded. Their was only one way to find out, thought the Persian.

"Do you, Monsieur Leroux, believe in ghosts?"

"Yes," he answered in return, liking where the old Persian was going with this, "quite certainly."

"Good," Darago said nodding, "than it shall not be difficult to convince you in the existence of an Opera Ghost who went by the name of the Phantom of the Opera."

The novelist fingers began to type once he heard this, knowing from that second on that he had a story of a century in his hands now. The old Persian thought carefully as to how he should begin his story. Their was so much to tell of the Opera Ghost whose whereabouts were left unknown. He could begin with all the tragedies he was guilty for, or of the white signature mask he bore which made him more commonly seen as a monster rather than human. Their was the story about the girl who broke his heart, the nobleman who earned every bit of dislike from the Phantom because of his blind optimism on stealing away his angel. So many things...so many stories to tell that all revolved around what people saw as a monster.

A murderer.

"The Phantom went by many names," Daroga said almost inaudibly, but Gaston was careful not to miss a single word, "but, a title he went by will be the name a navie girl would know him as for as long as she lives. The Opera Ghost, who haunted the Opera Populair here, across the street from my flat, was to her no monster nor phantom. No," the old man laughed halfheartedly, "he was to her the Angel of Music."


End file.
